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His lips crash into mine before I can reply.

The kiss is practiced but aggressive, his hand in my hair, gripping tight.

He tastes like soy sauce and confidence, with a hint of that beer he ordered to impress Katy with his pronunciation.

I keep my eyes open, watching the streetlights blur, thinking about how Jaxon always started soft, like a question.

“Relax,” he breathes against my lips. “Let me make you feel good.”

His hand slides up my thigh. I push it away, stomach churning. “Nathan?—”

“You can’t wear a dress like this and not expect me to want you.” There’s a sharpness in his tone now, like the winter wind cutting down the street.

I turn away, watching a group of girls totter past in heels, laughing. One catches my eye, her smile fading when she sees my face. “I want to go back to my dorm.”

“Hey, I?—”

“Now. Please.”

A bus rumbles past, drowning out his next excuse. We stand there, him annoyed, me fighting tears, streetlights blurring into gold smears. The neon sign from the Korean place throws red across everything, and I hate myself for agreeing to this date. What a disaster.

“Listen, fuck.” Nathan runs a hand through his hair, messing it up for real this time. “I’m sorry I kissed you.”

“It’s fine.” I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, smearing the last of my lipstick. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

“Mhm.” He glares at me, and I feel even worse. A siren wails nearby. “You know that’s what people say when they don’t want to piss you off.”

Anger bubbles up before I can stop it. “You’re right. It’s you.” I step back, heart pounding, hands shaking. “I don’t know why I... I don’t know what I’m doing. I love a guy who clearly doesn’t feel the same.”

God, stop talking.

Nathan blinks, red neon making his face look almost evil. “Wait. What?”

“Not you, genius.”

He smirks, a glimmer of understanding. “Oh, the baseball player? The one I saw you leave that party with?”

I nod, tears slipping down. “Yeah, him.”

He exhales hard, breath fogging in the cold. “If you didn’t want to kiss me, you should have said something. Before I wasted my night trying to impress someone still hung up on her ex.”

Impress me by being an ass? “I did want to kiss you, until... I didn’t.”

He tosses his head back, staring at the sky. “Then you shouldn’t have done it. Why’d you even say yes?”

He’s mad, but honestly? I’m madder. And confused. How did I end up here, doing things I never wanted, feeling things I never asked for?

And then I nod to myself. “Oh, right. That’s how.”

Nathan glares, the bass from a nearby club vibrating the sidewalk, my heels humming with it. “I don’t see why you can’t let him go. He’s moved on.”

My phone vibrates in my clutch—a text. I ignore it, probably Callie checking in. The screen glows blue inside my bag.

And honestly, I’m too pissed to care.

Nathan’s wrong. Jaxon was holding onto me too, just not in a way everyone could see. He never mentioned me to his friends. They didn’t know we talked every day since eighth grade, or that even after breaking up, we still hooked up.

Jaxon kept me private, so everyone made their own assumptions. They thought he hated me, or at least didn’t want me.

He cared, though. Loved me in his own way. I loved him through the times he didn’t feel the same, through the times he didn’t love himself, or the game.

He could hurt me a hundred times, but when he was good to me, my heart fell under his spell and I let the cycle repeat, hoping one day it would change.

It’s like knowing your curveball isn’t working, but you keep throwing it, praying the next one will break right.

I keep holding onto Jaxon, hoping the next chance will be the one that makes him realize he wants me back.

“I want to leave,” I say, and this time he listens.

The drive back is silent except for Nathan talking about soccer—I tune him out. Because guess who finally texted me?

Jaxon

Sorry, baseball sucks rn

It's not you

I flip my phone face-down in my lap. Of course he finally texts while I’m trapped on the worst date imaginable. He’s had a rough few weeks since his injury, but he got right back in, broken nose and all. The memory of that fastball still makes my stomach turn.

“Hey,” Nathan says as I get out of the car, BMW engine purring. He grabs my hand across the console. “If you ever decide to move on, call me. When you’re done in the minor leagues of dating.”

What a tool. I’m about to cry and the last place I want to do it is next to this smug soccer player’s BMW, in a hot pink dress with my ass cheeks hanging out.

The elevator feels like a confessional booth, just me and my mascara-streaked reflection. The fluorescent lights make everyone look like extras from The Walking Dead, and someone’s written “Bailey gives good head” in Sharpie on the wall. Stay classy, UW.

Callie’s sprawled on her bed when I burst in, still in her pajamas, scrolling TikTok. String lights cast everything in warm gold, lavender oil in the air. She takes one look at me and sits up.

“Oh, honey.”

That does it. I collapse onto my bed, still in the pink heels, and cry. Tears run hot and fast, smearing whatever makeup survived Nathan’s kiss. Through the wall, our neighbors shout about blue shells over Mario Kart.

“What happened?” Callie’s beside me now, arm around my shoulders. She smells like coconut shampoo and vanilla candle. “Did Nathan?—”

“Jaxon finally texted me.” My voice cracks. “Like he knew. Like he always fucking knows.”

“Knew what?”

“That I went on this stupid date. That I let Nathan kiss me. That I—” I kick off the heels. One hits Callie’s dresser, probably leaving a dent. I can’t care. “What was I thinking?”

“You were trying to move on,” she says gently, running her fingers through my hair like my mom used to. “You’re allowed.”

I grab a pillow, hugging it close. It still smells faintly of Jaxon’s cologne from the last time he was here, pretending to study. “Nathan kept touching me, and talking about himself, and all I could think was, ‘this isn’t right, this isn’t him.’”

“Babes.” Callie’s voice is gentle but firm. “You can’t keep comparing everyone to him. And you can’t let him breadcrumb you forever.”

“I know.” I sit up, mascara everywhere. “But it’s like... Nathan kisses too hard. He ordered for me without asking. His car was too clean. He drives too fast, and?—”

“And he’s not Jaxon.”

“And he’s not Jaxon,” I whisper.

Callie grabs makeup wipes, gently cleaning my face like she’s defusing a bomb. The wipe is black and pink—there goes forty bucks of Sephora. “You know what the worst part is?”

“That I’m pathetic?”

“No.” She tilts my chin up, her face serious in the golden glow. “Jaxon probably texted because someone told him you were out with Nathan. He doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to ignore you for days and then act possessive when you try to move on.”

But he does. Always has. And I let him.

“I shouldn’t have gone out tonight,” I say, fresh tears starting. From the wall: “BLUE SHELL!” and a truly creative string of curses. “I shouldn’t have worn this stupid dress or these shoes or?—”

“Stop.” Callie grabs my hands. “You look hot. You deserved a night out, even if it wasn’t with the right person. Even if that person turned out to be a soccer-playing douche who wouldn’t know a good thing if it hit him with a 65-mile-per-hour riseball.”

My phone buzzes. Jaxon.

Well you’re prolly asleep

i'll text ya tmmr when I get back

Again sorry abt that

miss u

Callie sees it too. Her eyes narrow. “Don’t you dare answer.”

“I wasn’t going to.” But we both know I’m lying. We both know I’ve saved every text he’s ever sent, screenshots in a folder labeled “homework.”

She takes my phone, slides it under her pillow. “Tonight, we put on face masks, watch trashy reality TV, and eat the emergency Oreos I hid from you.”

I manage a watery laugh. “The Oreos were for emergencies.”

“Trust me.” She hugs me tight. “This qualifies. If you really want to feel better, we can make a TikTok of us burning that pink dress.”

I glance at the dress, then at the Oreos. “I kind of like the dress.”

“Fine. We’ll burn Nathan's number.”

“Deal.” My phone buzzes again under her pillow.

And again. But for now, wrapped in Callie’s coconut-scented hug, watching her dig snacks from her sock drawer while Love Island plays, I let myself forget about the boy who never claims me in public.

The one who left in his too-clean BMW thinking softball is “cute.” All of it.

Because some nights, that’s all you need.

2:47 a.m.

Here’s a plot twist for you. I’m not awake pining over Jaxon. I’m awake because Dragon Palace’s “world-famous shu mai” is trying to kill me from the inside.

Callie’s breathing is slow and steady, broken by the occasional tiny snore she insists she doesn’t have.

I’m curled up in the fetal position, wondering if this is karma for letting Nathan kiss me or if the waitress saw me roll my eyes and gave me the week-old dumplings.

“Shut up,” I whisper to my stomach. It answers by trying new and exciting knots.

This is what I get for letting a guy order for me. Next time, I’m sticking to Chipotle. Or anywhere else.

Sitting on the floor between our beds, I think about my phone under Callie’s pillow. She kept it so I wouldn’t text Jaxon. I want it back.

Moving slowly, like I’m stealing second—partly sneaky, mostly because sudden moves might make me puke—I inch across the floor in just my bra and underwear. My clothes are casualties somewhere near the bathroom.

“Mmmph... no... blue shell...” Callie mumbles in her sleep.

I freeze. Did she wake up? Nope. Still out.

I snag my phone from under her pillow. The floor is cold but feels good on my food-poisoned skin, even if I’m collecting enough dust bunnies to knit a sweater. Mission accomplished.

“Don’t touch the... banana…” she mutters.

I stifle a laugh. Mario Kart dreams.

I touch the screen—another text from Jaxon at two a.m.

im rlly sorry i didn’t text ya for a few days

See? He cares. He didn’t mean to ignore me. Stockholm syndrome at its finest.

If someone did a psych eval, they’d probably say, “You’ve developed an emotional attachment to the person who keeps striking you out.” I’d say, “Yeah, but have you seen his curveball?”

At least hostages get three meals a day. I’m out here living on breadcrumbs and thinking it’s a feast.

If my heart were a catcher’s mitt, Jaxon would be that wild pitch that somehow lands dead center. Except the pitch is emotional manipulation, and I’m the mitt, catching it every time.

God, I need therapy.

And some Pepto-Bismol.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to reply. I haven’t talked to him in days and it’s killing me. Callie would murder me. She’d give me that look—like I deserve more than late-night texts and stolen moments.

Through the wall, someone’s microwaving fish—because apparently that’s what people do at 3 AM in college. My stomach rolls at the smell. The blue light from Callie’s diffuser makes weird shadows on the ceiling, and my body is staging a rebellion against my dinner choices.

“No... not the red shell…” Callie whimpers.

Doesn’t matter, because Jaxon’s texts still make my heart skip like a perfect bunt down the third base line.

I type back:

i miss you too

And then I lie on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by dust bunnies and questionable choices, staring at the ceiling and hating myself a little for being so easy.

For letting him pull me back in with three words.

For still wanting him, even when my mouth tastes like death and my stomach is auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

“NOOOOO!” Callie suddenly shouts, bolting upright. “THE BLUE SHELL!”

I freeze, phone clutched to my chest, praying she’s still asleep.

She flops back down. “Stupid Mario…”

Some nights, you know you’re making the wrong play. You make it anyway.

Even if you might throw up first.

And even if your roommate might murder you in your sleep for texting your ex.